


The Lonely Hearts Club

by Alex_Levi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 2001-2002ish, Books and music over tea, F/M, Harry Potter is a Good Friend, Ron loves muggle songs, dramione - Freeform, friendship is a bliss, old fic, sick people fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 10:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11942133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Levi/pseuds/Alex_Levi
Summary: 'It was time. And if ever he came by and opened the door of his car for her to get in, she surely would.' Just sick people being sick together.





	The Lonely Hearts Club

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is previously posted on fanfiction.net (titled as La Vie en Rose, by my former account, indigo lights).To everyone who have read this story there - I deleted that account and reposted (with minor revisions) the story here. I also added some contexts, but if you've read this, you don't really have to read it again if you don't want to.

**_The Lonely Hearts Club_ **

_by Alex Levi (One Shot)_

* * *

_T_ _he London Clinic._

The massive sign over a red bricked-building read. Beads of sweat glistened down her forehead, down her cheeks and continued to her neck. She sighed, wiping them with a blue plaid handkerchief. Walking tire her so easily these days.

She glanced at her watch. It's three thirty-five in the afternoon. In five minutes, she'd be late for her first ever appointment.

"Hey," she spoke, catching the attention of a middle-aged brunette receptionist. "Do you know where Doctor Winston's office is? I have an appointment."

"Doctor Winston of pathology, I assume?"

She read the slip, "Yes."

The receptionist nodded and pointed toward the right, "East wing, continue until you've reached the flight of stairs leading to the second floor corridor with the beige walls, then go to the end of the hall and the door to the right."

"Thank you." She said, giving a small smile in her direction. The vast halls of the hospital sent some uncanny sensation to her body, but she never really understood what it meant.

Her feet led her up to the second floor where the beige wall lies. She continued until she reached the end of the hall and looked at her right. A brown oak door welcomed her with the sign _'The Doctor is IN'_. She remembered that her parents used to have those signs hung up their office doors.

With a big intake of air, she gathered all her guts and turned the knob. "Is Doctor Winston inside?"

The secretary, a plump lady about the age of fifty-two, perked up at the sound of her voice. "Are you Miss Granger?"

She nodded and handed her the papers. "I am."

"Well, he's been expecting you."

Hours after the encounter with the front desk receptionist, the secretary, and a certain Doctor Winston, she stood in front of 12 Grimmauld Place, quite unsure if she were to knock. The enchanted place was barely ever hidden after the war - and that was about three years ago. That was why, when she somehow had time to visit Harry, her best friend, she would rather knock than apparate.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

There was some shuffling on the other side of the door, and after a minute or so, it opened to find a slightly disturbed Harry and a nervous Ron.

"Hi, guys." She greeted.

Harry's face distorted from disturbed to relief. "Oh, Hermione!" He said, pulling her into a hug.

She chuckled, "Come on, let's go inside."

They all went inside the drawing room, with Ron not even speaking a greeting. She knew it was because she only brought bad news whenever she knocks. "So, how's your day, Ron?"

He grunted, "How's yours?"

It didn't work, her and him. They thought it was just the pressure of the war that had them together in the first place - and if ever that there wasn't  _any_  Voldemort somewhere along the lines, there were very little chances that they're going to get together.

"Well," She smiled sadly. "I have it." She handed him the envelope and sat on an armchair. Harry looked over Ron's shoulder, looking at her laboratory results.

"You know this is curable, right?" Harry said, sighing. Ron glanced at him curiously, "I don't get this, Harry? What could this possibly mean?"

"Ron -"

"I have leukaemia, Ron. Stage three. I had it when I was young, at about four, went to remission – and now, I had a relapse." She continued. It's better to break the news herself. "Leukaemia?"

Harry scratched the back of his neck, falling back to his sofa. "It's a type of cancer, Ron." It looked as if he was about to cry.

Ron shook his head, his grab almost crumpling the papers. "And so? What is it? I'm sure St. Mungo's can cure you!"

"Ron, St. Mungo's can't. It's like Dragon Pox. Once you're in, you're never getting out." She mumbled.

"No! We will get you cured, alright!" Ron shouted, throwing the pile of papers on the floor. "You can't do this to us, Hermione! You can't just give up! We're still here for you!"

"I’m not giving up, Ronald. Please calm down -"

"Don't tell me to calm down, Hermione – my best friend is ill! And you're the one who didn't give up tracking those Horcruxes with Harry when I did! You can't just... You can't do this." He stormed out of the room. Harry rolled his eyes at the lad and kneeled down in front of her, grabbing both of her hands, "We can't afford lose you, Hermione. We've already lost so much."

"I know, Harry. I'll still try the chemotherapy, if that would make you  _and_  Ron happy." She closed her eyes and laid back.

"Aren't you scared?" He asked.

"I am. But that doesn't mean that I'll just succumb to that. Like you said,  _this_ is curable. Whatever happens, I'm sure, will happen for the better." She replied, squeezing his hand.

He shook his head, "I don't know how you can stand to be brave, Hermione. This… I don't understand it. I can't do it like you do." Harry paused, "I'm afraid of what's going to happen. I know Ron will take it hard, as I will. I can't see you like that."

She shrugged, smiling. "Come on, Harry. You've defeated a dark wizard, you've ridden dragons – where's your Gryffindor side? Be a little braver. I'm sure I'll find a cure."

"Hermione, this is different, alright? When I fought that battle, I'm so sure you and Ron are going to stay alive, regardless of my safety. I know you both will be alright. But this? Even if I sacrificed myself to the heavens above, there would be no assurance that you'd be saved."

"Don't close your ears to possibilities, Harry." Sighing, she let go of his hand. "I know that I, myself, am losing the hope of finding mum and dad, but see – I'll still try. Despite this, I will."

"No, I'll ask Kingsley for that, you go and rest –"

She shook her head. "I did it to them. I'm sure I'm the one who needed to undo it. Now go," Her head throbbed a little. "Find Ron. Tell him I'm sorry and it'll go away soon. I'm going to have to go back to my flat, have some rest. And please tell him – make it firm – that I'm going to tell Ginny myself."

Harry stared at her and engulfed her into one of his  _best_ hugs. "Please let me help you look for your parents."

She smiled and pulled away, "Thank you, but you've done enough. It's alright."

"I'm not taking 'no' for an answer, you know." He said, leading her to the front door. She rolled her eyes and muttered an "Okay."

A radio playing  _Landslide_ by Fleetwood Macin the next room filled her ears. "Let's give him some time, Hermione."

She nodded and walked out of the house.  _Give Ron some time._

* * *

_The London Clinic._

It went down that she had to come by here all of the seven days of this week, going from different oncologist to another. And just today, she had to show up a couple of hours early to get her blood drawn. It was insane – no, it was more than that: it was pitiful.

And if there's something that she didn't want to happen, it's to pity her.

She didn't live to be pitied – hell, she’d kicked bums of dark wizards for one reason, and that reason was not to earn pity. But she was pitied, and by muggles too. Now, she really couldn't blame how Slytherins thought like when they said that they were a little ignorant sometimes.

For one, sending her looks of sorrow while she walked in the halls of the hospital wouldn't help her be cured. It really wouldn't. She didn't even look like a sick lady! Her bruised arm was covered under her jumper, a scarf was wrapped along her neck to cover the lumps that started forming, and she checked her nose before she left the loo to see that it was, indeed, not bleeding.

Secondly, she walked the halls of the hospital to get help, not to get pitied at. Ridiculous.

But to be honest, she really didn't know why she was acting like a grumpy old lady. Maybe it was because she knew about this. Maybe because she couldn't do anything about this but to sit in a chemotherapy session without someone to talk to. Maybe it wasn't enough knowing that her friends were there – maybe she really needed someone at the moment who would understand what she's going through.

And then she felt bad. She should be thankful that she still have a lot of people behind her back and supporting her through and through. She shouldn't be so whiny about it.

Sighing, she made her way down the Infusion Area and showed her blue card to the young nurse in sight. "I'm Hermione Granger, and I'm here for the chemotherapy."

He checked his clipboard, "Who's your doctor?"

"My oncologist is Doctor Edwards."

The nurse gave her a small smile and gestured for her to follow him. "Well, my name is James and you'll probably be seeing me from time to time now. What's your case?"

"Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia." They walked to a corridor and continued until they've reached another.

He bit his lip, "That's a tough one, you know."

"Been there. It's a relapse."

He simply nodded and led her to a reclining chair. "Well, wait here for a bit and I'll be getting your result. Be a sweetheart and behave." She smiled and watched as he walked away, noticing the little  _sass_  in the way he walks.

She looked at her right and saw an old lady sleeping, along with a 'Power Port' – leading to a dextrose of some clear liquid – clinging to her chest. Her hair was almost out, just a bit of eye brows left above both of her eyes, and she was wearing a bright pink dress. A nurse wearing a yellow scrub suit checked on the woman and wrote something down her clip board.

"It's rude to stare, Granger." She was startled by a drawl, quickly turning around to see a certain blond head sitting on a chair in her left side, eyes closed. An IV was accessed in his arm and there was a bottle of saline solution on a side table beside him. His hair was thinning, but it was still a bit thick.

"Malfoy?" Her eyes widened, almost tempted to poke his cheek just to see if he was, in fact, here with her.

"Yes, Granger.  _Malfoy._  Who else?" He opened his eyes, only to roll it at her. She shook her head and laid back. "What's your case?"

"Osteosarcoma." He simply replied, eyes closed once again.

"How?"

"Well, apparently, climbing on top of those furniture in the Room of Requirement and having my right hip hit a post while Potter drove a broom out did a bloody genetic tragedy in my anatomy and here I am, just caught it over a month ago."

"That was slow." She ignored the fact that her best friend  _somehow_ had something to do with it.

"Exactly."

They stayed quiet for a few moments, until her nurse showed up with equipment and medications on a stroller tray. "You've made some friends, I see?"

"A person from school." She said, letting James check his vitals. He set down the stethoscope and wrote something on his clipboard. Next, he wrapped a band with Velcro in her right arm and checked her blood pressure. "You're good. Now, I'm going to sneak an IV in your arm. What arm would you rather have?"

She rolled the right sleeves of her jumper. He carefully knotted the tourniquet around her arm and looked for a vein. When he found one, he removed the band and stuck the needle in. "Here you go. I'll get back to you in five minutes to get your drugs, alright? Try to relax. This is just saline solution. Not a big deal." She nodded, looking back at Malfoy again.

The therapy seemed to tire him. He had bags under his eyes and it looked as though he was getting leaner by the minute. Of course, she knew that his voice still carried that weight, but it didn't feel like what it was before. It didn't somehow give her a twinge of anger and offense. Nothing. Not even a touch of irritation towards Harry for being a reckless broom rider. It felt as though he was merely scolding her because it was –undeniably – rude to stare.

"Granger, how many times do I need to tell you that it's  _rude_   _to_   _stare_?" He said, eyes still closed.

She blinked, "Alright, alright. Sorry." She hesitated, taking a deep breath. "I have leukaemia, by the way."

"I didn't ask."

Now she felt awkward. "Just so you'd know."

His nurse checked his vitals and injected an amount of drug in his IV. She saw that it made him tighten his grip on the arm of his chair, but nonetheless calmed down a little while after. "Alright now, Mister Malfoy?"

"Never better." He muttered, closing his eyes once again. The nurse wrote something on her clipboard and walked away, while James came back with a tray of different bottles.

"Apparently, Doctor Edwards wanted you to have it in fluids." He injected one in her tube. "This would sting a little."

She nodded. "I know." A cold sensation ran along her arm, down her hand. She winced when it suddenly felt a little hot, and almost immediately, it faded.

"Feel that?" He grabbed another syringe and poke the next bottle's rubber topper with it. "Well, let's flush that absurd chemical with saline."

Smiling and checking her pulse one more time, he left her alone to rest, saying that the "allergy drug would make her sleepy."

* * *

She didn't tell Harry about the Malfoy incident.

And there was a pretty valid reason for that, too.

First, he'd go out of his way to see how Malfoy looked when he's sick – well, maybe not him, but Ron would.

Second, knowing how Harry was, he'd feel a twinge of guilt that he caused this thing to happen – even to Malfoy. After all, the lad helped him when he's almost at the point of being killed by Bellatrix Lestrange.

Third – and the most important reason, she didn't want them to find out simply because her selfish self wanted to have a friend who could understand how she was coping up without them telling her that they'd understand. They wouldn't.

Of course she loved Harry and Ron dearly. But this was a case that they wouldn't understand unless they were walking in her shoes.

And boy, Malfoy  _is_ walking in her shoes.

Even if she found it hard to admit it, there was still a longing that she wanted them - her and him - to be acquaintances. It's really hard to find a person you knew in the past who was faced with the same ill situation as you were. Also, it helped the fact that he wasn't there to pity her.

So, ten days after her first chemotherapy appointment, she went back to the hospital.

She walked inside the halls, through the Infusion Area, and to the reception. Her nurse, James, grinned at her and led her to her usual chair. "I suppose you've taken your laboratory?"

"You supposed correctly." She said.

"Alright, let me just get it for you." He walked away from her chair.

Her stare drifted off to the chair in her right. The old lady still sat in her place, snoring. She might've thought that the lady didn't bother getting home, but somehow, she was wearing a different shade of pink dress for today's session.

Sighing, she looked at her left side and found that the space was empty. "Oh." A pang of disappointment twitched in her heart.  _Maybe he was done with his chemo._

James came back with her IV and some other equipment. "Hello again." It didn't actually bothered her that she should've a different nurse now, but she liked James.

"Hi again." She let out a small grin and laid back. He went to put the tourniquet in her right arm. "Oh, wait. This isn't working. You've got a massive bruise here."

She bit her lip. "My left arm has a scar along it."

"Alright, but would you rather I put it in your wrist or set up a catheter in your chest?"

"In my wrist, if that's okay."

He sighed, "It is. But I don't think that's going to last long. You're having sessions every ten days. Your veins in your wrists aren't that helpful. They're thinner and could easily be bruised. How about you talk over this thing with your friends after this session and tell me your decision next appointment?"

She nodded and offered her wrist. He did the usual tradition and she felt as though she was getting drowsy from it all. Her eyes fluttered shut.

"Are you that feeble, Granger?" A familiar drawl managed to alert her subconscious. She almost felt her heart race – but it didn't. It was probably just surprise. "It wasn't as if the saline was injected yet. Let alone your drug."

She opened her eyes and saw Malfoy removing his coat and sitting down the recliner. His nurse, who was wearing an orange scrub, was quickly doing the routine with him. And  _not the one_ beyond the professional line up.

James checked her vitals and injected her with saline, "Here you go, Miss Granger. You're all settled. Just wait for me to get your drugs. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Godspeed, James." She said, taking her eyes off of Malfoy.

Malfoy's nurse went to get his drugs almost after her nurse took off. "What, do you boss your nurse to be the fastest one around or is my nurse the slowest nurse ever?"

"Both, actually. I don't like to be kept waiting." He reached in to the pocket of his coat and pulled out a book.

"You are unbelievable, you know."

"And your wit is going down the drain – along with your health."

She grumbled something and turned away, focusing her attention on the telly.

* * *

Her weight loss was rapid.

On the first week after her second appointment, she still looked presentable in her usual jumper and trousers. Her hair was still manageable with her rubber band to keep it well-groomed and unnoticeable.

When Ginny found out about her situation days later, a flip out would be an understatement. She simply looked enraged and sad at the same time, it was impossible to know what she was thinking – but luckily for them, Weasleys have a knack of saying what they think without actually going over it first.

In the end, though, she hugged her and told her everything that Harry and Ron never did. Reassurance.

In the three days that followed her second appointment, however, she managed to lose fifteen pounds already.

Her hair, being thick and bushy, was never really her problem. It was thinner than before, sure, but it wasn't as noticeable as her body. The bruises continued to show, and they barely ever heal. After yellowing, it seemed as if it was to stay in that colour forever.

Harry and Ron saw this, of course. She refused for them to come with her in the treatment, but they wouldn't let any other thing limit them from seeing her apart from that. The two would always be waiting by her porch after her every appointments – may it be her chemo, a medical check-up, or a laboratory test for Doctor Edwards.

It made Ron barely looked at her. Harry was, of course, more misleading with his expression – but she knew that her two best friends felt the same way. Ginny often came around to talk to her about being the maid-of-honour in her and Harry's wedding, which made her feel a little bit better because it somehow gave her some normalcy.

On her third appointment, ten days after her second, she still insisted to walk.

She might as well have – if her bones are going to be weaker any time soon, she'd want to have the sensation of walking for a little while more.

And there was a big achievement that happened in her third appointment, either. After being applied a catheter on her chest, Malfoy arrived but he didn't talk to her – nor did she initiate.

She noticed a strain in his walking that she haven't taken note on before.

Until three hours into the therapy, she initially got bored of reading the back of the packet that Doctor Edwards had given her last time. Over the last few days, she had been reading it – so, it's an understatement that she had just memorized it all.

Also, the worst part was that she kept forgetting about bringing her books with her. Sure, she could've sworn she put it in her bag before she went to bed the other night, but when she checked her bag at the laboratory earlier, it wasn't there.

Maybe, she forgot to put it in – or it must've been just a wild dream of her putting her book inside her bag, but she was certainly losing her grip.

"Well, that's certainly a bother." She commented, looking away from the telly. It was showing a sappy drama about a husband having a mistress and feeling fed up that his wife was acting fairly ignorant of it all. It was absurd.

He didn't comment. Simply continued to read his book. "What are you reading?"

At this, however, he raised his book a little to let her see the title. Maybe he was too engrossed with it that he didn't bother arguing.

 _Life of Pi_ , it read.

"I didn't know you read muggle novels."

"I didn't know you cared."

She ignored the remark. "Is it good?"

"Why don't you read it yourself?" He said, turning a page. His tone didn't sound resentful or bothered, just plain bored of the conversation.

"A good question that required a good answer: I should."

"That was a rhetorical question, Granger."

At the corner of her eye, she saw his lips quirked up to the smallest of smiles.

* * *

There was barely an inch in diameter in her ponytail by the time her fourth appointment came into place.

Three days after the third appointment, Ron played  _Landslide_ on repeat in her drawing room after seeing her catheter on her chest. Harry, meanwhile, never stopped pushing food into her mouth after seeing that his wrist was the twice of hers.

Well, after a few moments, she ran towards the loo to vomit everything that Harry fed her. She felt like hell and asked if she could be put in bed.

She cried all night that evening – and it didn't help that Ron couldn't stop playing  _Landslide._ Of course, the song was her favourite before –  _before_ she and Harry introduced it to Ron – but after hearing him play that for the hundredth time since she had been diagnosed, it's expected for her to get sick of it.

On the fifth day after her third appointment, Harry told her that they had obtained a trace as to where her parents were. It brought glee to her, but it suddenly disappeared when she was, once again, drowning from the blood that was flowing through her nose.

By the time of her scheduled fourth appointment, she asked for a wheel chair because her bones had been reasonably weak. In fact, on the days prior, she could barely walk. She'd even asked Harry if he could move her bed downstairs.

James wheeled her toward the Infusion Area and asked if he should carry her to the chair. She thought about it for a minute and shook her head. "No, I think I'm good."

He nodded and watched as she struggled to her feet. "Do you have anyone who could come with you here? Assist you?" He helped her get comfortable. The whole routine was much easier now that she had a catheter.

She shook her head again, feeling a little dizzy. "I don't want them to see me in this state."

"What about your parents? Where are they?" James asked as he plugged a dextrose in her, and checked her vitals. He looked at her records and smiled, not waiting for her answer. "Anyway, Doctor Edwards saw an improvement on your platelet count. That ought to be worth the wait."

She smiled, "Yes, hopefully."

"Your bruises, however, are not healing." He said, shaking his head. "Are you overworking yourself?"

"No, I quit my job a month ago."

"Good, but just a tip – remove yourself from emotional stress. And here." He gave her a brochure about a group meeting where cancer victims discuss their feelings. "Try to swing by and make some friends. You won't believe their stories. So inspiring. There is a meeting every Sunday at three. Everything you need to know is in the brochure – and it's free. Be sure to come, alright? They're looking for another set of members."

She nodded, closing her eyes. He told her that he'd be back in thirty minutes, just to let the medications settle in.

There was some shuffling on her left, and a loud  _thump!_  as an object hit her side table. She opened her eyes to see Malfoy shrugging out of his clothes and sitting down, his nurse assisting him.

He was wearing a grey cap today.

She looked at her side table and smiled. There was a book.  _Life of Pi_ by Yann Martel.

"Thank you." She whispered as his nurse left him to get his medication. He nodded and reached for his coat pocket.

"Don't mention it." He muttered, opening his book to where he left off.

She paused, grabbing the book from her side table. She didn't open it – instead, she looked at him. "You're way ahead of my therapy."

"It's my sixth. So?"

"Why aren't you getting as weak as I am?"

"What's your case again?"

"Leukaemia."

"Exactly. My medication is different from yours. I'm preparing for a surgery – while that's your only way out. Yours is more concentrated than mine."

"Figures."

There was a moment of silence.

His nurse came back with a tray in her hands. She checked his vitals and injected him to a dextrose, then left.

She tossed him the brochure about the group meeting.

He continued reading after putting the brochure in his coat pocket, while she stared at the cover of  _Life of Pi_. On the first page, his initials were written in a calligraphy.  _D.L.M._ She even wondered if he had someone to do it for him. It wasn't a surprise if he  _did_  have someone. He had one of the biggest vaults in Gringotts, as she had heard.

That night, her parents' French vinyl record of  _La Vie En Rose_ by Édith Piaf was playing on repeat.

* * *

There were still some hair on her head, but she decided to where a scarf to cover it.

Her clothes are all loose – she even had Ginny out to buy a new set of underwear just because.

Harry was insisting for her to live with him in 12 Grimmauld Place, but she didn't agree. Until she had to be rushed to the emergency room at midnight three days after her fourth chemotherapy.

She was confined for two days for her loss of blood. Thankfully, Molly Weasley was a match – and voluntarily offered her blood without any hesitations.

Her doctor told her that her rounds of chemotherapy had been longer than the normal, but she wasn't getting any better. He offered if she would like to have a bone marrow transplant.

She didn't agree – and refused to tell Harry and Ron about it, knowing they would get their hopes up. She knew it wasn't easy to find a match – and the only time that she'd consider having a transplant was when her parents reappear.

When Doctor Edwards let Harry, Ron, and Ginny – along with the other Weasleys – inside her small, private room, she told them she was alright.

That was a Saturday. On the next day, she told Harry that she wanted to go to the group meeting for the cancer patients.

They were seated in a circle inside a slightly lit room of an old building. There weren't any other furniture insight apart from the chairs – fifteen chairs all in all. She showed up thirteen minutes earlier than their scheduled session, telling Harry that he should come back for her after two and a half hours.

The host, a woman who had an inch's hair, made way for introductions. She introduced herself as "Annie, twenty-seven, ACL-on remission."

She didn't see Malfoy, but nevertheless sat next to an empty stool.

After the third person, who was "Claire, thirty, breast cancer – stage two", it was her turn.

"Hermione, twenty-one, ALL – relapse, stage three." She said, looking down.

"And you, sir?" Annie asked, looking at the chair beside her. She didn't look up, thinking that someone must've arrived. Her heart sank a little.

"Draco, twenty-one, osteosarcoma – two-B."

She smiled to herself.

After the session, Malfoy quickly walked toward the exit. She saw him ride bus number twenty-six.

* * *

On her fifth appointment, she finally remembered to bring a book.

Ron came with her today since Harry and Ginny had an appointment with their minister. He had  _Landslide_  on repeat in his CD player that Harry gave him for Christmas last year. She rolled her eyes and stared outside the bus window all through the ride.

Also, she told Ron to go back after five hours.

Much to her dismay, Malfoy wasn't in his chair the whole duration of the treatment.

* * *

Three days later, Harry dropped her off the building to where their group session was held.

He drove his car after telling her that the trace from a few weeks ago misled them to a family with the same story that she planted in her parents' memories.

It was a sad day, but she made some friends over her group session last time – like Claire.

The sitting arrangement was the same as last week, and the chair beside her was unoccupied. But unlike last week, it was unoccupied for the whole session.

That night, she finished reading  _Life of Pi._

* * *

She was confined to the hospital for another week, leading her to have her sixth chemotherapy in the hospital bed.

This day was a bad day.

It was bad because she was trapped in a bed for seven days, and it didn't help that she was being constantly harassed by Rita Skeeter's letters – who had found some 'news' about her well-being. She knew that old hag would've like a piece of her state, and she just wouldn't give her that.

Doctor Edwards prompted her to take a chance on the bone marrow transplant, but she stayed true to her words. He even asked her if it was about financial assistance, but she shook her head. Her 'prize' for being a part of Harry's companion in finding the Horcruxes was more than enough to support her through her life.

Nevertheless, her plead to go home for her birthday was granted.

* * *

Due to her confinement, she wasn't able to attend the group session last week. Thankfully, this week, she was allowed to do so.

Harry told her that he'll be back after two and a half hours, the usual, but she shook her head. She told him she'll walk with Claire today – even though that's not entirely true until Claire would consent later.

She walked inside the doors of the building and to the barely lit room.

Her heart raced a little when she saw the grey cap of the pale man sitting next to her seat. She smiled and settled herself, smoothening her scarf out of habit. "So you've come."

"So I have." He said, glancing at her.

They were quiet for a moment, until she heard him clear his throat. "Blue does fit you well." He was referring to her scarf. She nodded, "Thanks. I've finished reading the book, by the way." She opened her bag to get the book but he shook his head.

"It's yours. I've already read it, I have no other use. And I know that you're dying to ask."

"Ask what?" She said, an almost-invisible brow raised. Of course, she knew  _what._  He was obviously taking some amusement in his form of torture to her.

Annie started with the introduction of their topic, but they were both too preoccupied to listen in.

"Oh, don't play daft, Granger. Your face shows too much." He grinned, making her blush.

She ignored him and focused at what Annie was saying.

"- our experiences with how our friends and families are dealing with –"

He continued to speak, "I had a surgery."

Her attention was caught. "Are you well now?"

He nodded, "Probably. You'll be seeing me  _still_  in chemotherapy. I was advised to continue."

She couldn't help but smile. "Good for you."

At the end of the session, they came out together and went for tea to talk about books.

* * *

On her birthday, an appointment for chemotherapy was scheduled.

It was her seventh, and she was quite looking forward to it.

Maybe it was because of Malfoy, and how he seemed to interest her with his knowledge about novels. Last Sunday, they spent about two hours drinking Earl Grey in a muggle shop.

Of course, at first, it seemed a bit awkward, but he broke the ice easily by showing her his hairless head. She chuckled and showed him hers. In the span of one-hundred and twenty minutes, they talked about  _Life of Pi_ and how Shakespeare was too overrated – or so was in Malfoy's opinion. She, on the other hand, defended him and told him that Shakespeare was the foundation of their literature.

At that, he shook his head and told her "Geoffrey Chaucer, that old coot was in Slytherin, and he was a  _hell_ lotbetter than Shakespeare. Also, he's  _the_ father of English literature; Shakespeare would be nowhere without him." She gave up the argument, albeit not agreeing that Chaucer was all that great.

She enjoyed the wit. It was what Harry and Ron never took interest in.

So here she was, quite nervous – insisting to Harry that she could walked through the Infusion Area and to leave her be and to come back five hours later. He nodded and handed her over to her nurse, James.

James, who eyed her rather excitedly, playfully wagged his brows at her. "Is he your knight in shining armour?"

She chuckled, "I'm sure many of the people I knew back in our place would call him that, but me? He's like a brother from another mother."

He nodded, not really believing. "I see."

"Oh, come on, James." She rolled her eyes as he pushed her wheelchair to her recliner. "I  _don't_ have  _hots_ for Harry. He's my best friend."

"That's what she always says." A voice said.

She looked up and saw Malfoy, already seated in his recliner, reading a new book. The cover read  _Deception Point_ by Dan Brown.

James laughed, "I knew it." He worked on her usual routine with her and finished after hooking her up with the saline, checking her vitals one more time before walking away – to be back in thirty minutes.

"You could sod off sometimes, Malfoy." She huffed, opening her bag for a book she bought with Harry after their lunch.

"Oh, come on. Are you seriously playing that game?"

"Game? He's marrying my best friend!" She said, amused. " _Oh, come on, Malfoy._  Are you seriously playing  _this_ game?"

"He's marrying that boy? God, I never thought –"

She laughed loudly, covering her mouth before she could wake up the other patients. "God, Malfoy. You  _really_ are impossible."

He shook his head, chuckling. "So he's marrying the red head? I've always heard that gingers were an incarnation of the devil."

"You've heard wrong."

"Tough luck." He licked his lips, "I thought you'd always end up with Potter – or Weasley." He paused. "Why didn't you?"

"I didn't know you cared." She repeated his dialogue from one of their conversations before.

"I didn't know  _I_ cared." He admitted.

They were silent for a minute. He still had his book in his hand, and she had hers in her hands, but they were looking at each other. She blinked, being the first one to look away. "It didn't work out." She murmured.

"Sad." He nodded and went back to his book. "Happy birthday, anyway."

She hid her smile in her open book.

* * *

Every Sunday, after their group sessions, they had been going out to talk about books and the shows that they've watch on the telly while they were stuck in their recliners.

Today was a Sunday, and they were in that tea shop again, talking about, well, life.

"I've felt like that, too. I mean, we're cancer patients, I don't think we're having so much fun." She said, sipping her tea.

He arched an eyebrow – his never  _did_  shed – and smirked, "How about you and I play a game? You know – challenge ourselves from time to time. Watch the world burn or something."

"Definitely not watching the world –"

"You take things very seriously, Granger. I was just kidding." He rolled his eyes. "God, I never thought I'd ever be  _this_ boring. Look at me, talking about books, telly shows, being bored – all the while seated in a tea shop with a tea that's far too bland for my liking. And I’m with you! Blaise would shit his face laughing at me."

It was her turn to roll her eyes, "Fine. Where do you want to go?"

"Do you know how to drive?" He asked.

She shook her head, "Nope."

"Did you ever sometimes think how I managed to go in that wretched hospital when it would be too suspicious to apparate?"

She shook her head again. "I saw you ride the bus."

He chuckled, "Every Sunday, yes. But that would be tiring, right? Well," He paused to sip his  _far too bland for my liking_  tea. "I actually know how to drive."

"Oh, do you?" She snorted, "Where's your goddamn egotism over muggle borns?"

Malfoy scratched the back of his head. "Oh really? God, that was ages ago. It's the twenty-first century! I got diagnosed with a muggle disease. Who am I, Napoleon Bonaparte?"

"More like Napoleon _Boring-party._ " She mumbled, "Anyway, what has he got to do with your prejudice? It's not like you met him."

"And you're twenty-two, barely fucked, and a bore." He rolled his eyes again. Her jaw dropped, "What the fuck are you getting at?"

She'd never become  _this_ vulgar with Harry and Ron.

"I'm just saying you have to live a little. You know, after I got the surgery, I fucking hiked a hill near the manor and screamed at the top of my lungs."

"Oh, like that would change anything –"

"It wouldn't. But what if my cancer cells had spread too much? What if I fucking die tomorrow? What would I have done that would make me feel a bit like it’s all worth it? Well, I know for a fact that sitting on that recliner wasn't that fun."

"It wasn't." She agreed. "So what do you proposed to do?"

"Let's run away. Go for a holiday."

* * *

She told Harry about him that night, only leaving out the thoughts of running away.

He nodded and he did what she expected him to do – he wanted to go apologize his way out of his guilt. She hit him in the shoulder and shook her head, telling him that it wouldn't change anything. Besides, she didn't want him to scare off her  _friend._

God, she never would have thought that she'd call Malfoy a  _friend._

She was kept up all night with the thoughts of him.

* * *

It was her tenth session, and he was nowhere to be seen.

She felt as though she was being tricked. Maybe he was playing with her all along, making her feel this way. She couldn't confirm this, of course, but she'd rather think that she's being toyed with than the worst. She didn't want to think that he had a relapse when he's barely on remission.

It was a six-hour treatment today. Long enough to keep her bored and her bum sore. She wanted to go back home and sleep, and she immediately regretted that she told Harry not to pick her up. She hated riding buses every time she was from appointment.

The winter air was making itself known again. It wasn't as if it's stuffy in London, but a little change in temperature would've been amazing. She wrapped her arms around herself, knowing that she really wasn't in the mood to see Harry or Ron right now – even though she wanted to go home. She kept making them feel sad, and she didn't want that. She never did.

Her footsteps led her to a deserted playground. It was about five in the afternoon and the kids were probably being bathed for dinner. It was a good thing that she wore a knitted hat instead of a scarf today. The harsh winds would've blown it away.

She sat on a swing, having it move an inch. It was making her feel lightheaded, sure, but maybe Malfoy was right. Maybe she needed a little rule breaking from time to time. Maybe she needed to skip the chemotherapy like he does from time to time. Maybe she really needed less time to waste on her therapy because her time was getting wasted.

It was time. And if ever he came by and opened the door of his car for her to get in, she surely would.

* * *

It was a very random day when he'd picked her up.

They were in the hospital at the time. She wasn't there for any of her appointment, nor was he. It just happened. She actually came by to tell Doctor Edwards that she didn't want to have those needles anymore. It did sound like she was being a whiny kid, but she couldn't care less.

God, it was suffocating her. She never got better.

And so, after having her catheter removed, she bumped into him – who had a bandage on his arm from blood extraction.

She just nodded and he led her to the parking lot.

They drove for five hours, occasionally stopping by to pee or to use the loo to vomit. It was a quiet drive, the sound of his French cassette tapes playing were the only sound. He didn't speak much when he drove, didn't even ask her where her catheter was.

For that, she was thankful.

If there was ever a person who made her feel normal, it was him.

He had enough space for her to breathe through without getting too lightheaded. She felt as if she was on the edge of a cliff when they're together – it was always like "one step, and you're out." No one tested the waters to see how high she would fall, and it wasn't as if he was there to catch her.

It's odd, sometimes. It's odd to find a person who you thought could never get you up so high, but did so. Scary, even. There was a lot of  _maybes_ in her life, and she would never, for the good of her, stop asking - but here, in the passenger seat of his car, those  _maybes_ were all gone.

It had been a very reckless stunt, of course. She knew Harry and Ron would get riled up looking for her, but for the sense of this adventure, she didn't care.

They've reached the beach at exactly  _5:43_ pm.

He opened her door for her and she dragged her feet to walk toward the sandy banks of the water.

The seams of the waves hit her naked feet, and she almost felt teary right there. It was the perfect time of that day. The sun was setting, sending over orange hues along the ocean. She blinked and removed her hat – it was cold but it was so worth it. The pain in her knees, the nausea from traveling that long, the embarrassment from being hairless – it was all worth it. "Fuck you, cancer!"

She smiled and looked back at him to see him smiling back with his hands in his pockets. And she had never felt so wonderful.

* * *

Her death had been simple.

She laid in her bed to sleep, just over Christmas dinner, and she simply refused to breathe.

Her parents have never been found. Ron didn't play  _Landslide_  to calm himself anymore – no one ever did play it around 12 Grimmauld Place, it reminded them of her too much. Harry and Ginny have been married over the summer of the following year, and Luna had to wear her maid-of-honour dress.

That night at the beach, he refused to kiss her.

She thought they were almost there, just an inch, but he didn't kiss her. He simply let her be. Her arms were wrapped around her skinny knees, his coat draped over her shoulders. They slept under the stars, talking about constellations and the stories behind it.

But there was one time that night that he opened up about him. He told her that he had wanted what cancer had to offer: slow, painful death. He wanted it to be like a payment for his wrongdoings. He wanted to die the moment he knew about the cancer, and wanted to die not because it was a muggle disease.

"What changed?" She had asked, not looking at him.

"My curiosity got the best of me." He answered, not looking at her. There were few bottles of beers in front of them while a fire out of driftwood was keeping them warm.

She bit her lip. "About what?"

"About you." He lifted his gaze from the ground and glanced at her, handing her a small black box. She opened it and smiled. "For your birthday."

It was a charmed bracelet with eight pink roses as its trinkets.

The night ended, and they haven't seen each other since. Her body was too weak to stand up, so she didn't bother going to the Sunday group sessions. She never knew if he'd recovered, but she knew that wherever he was, he wasn't curious anymore.

There were four boxes with varying sizes in her closet when she died. All were coloured pink. On top of the biggest box was a note for Harry and Ron, in which encased a scrapbook of their memories through their lives – with five more empty pages.  _Fill it up with the next big things._

The smallest box was for Ginny, and it had her sapphire hair she’d inherited from her mum.  _For your something blue._

The third box, which contained a picture frame of her parents and her, was reserved if ever Harry  _did_ find them – even after her passing. On the back of the picture was her handwriting with the words  _I'm sorry._

The last box was thin but quite massive in width and length, and it was addressed to him. When Harry saw this, he instantly knew where to deliver.

It had been a rainy day on his beach house when he received the package. Harry apologized and left him with it. He nodded at him and banged the door on his face.

He sat on the steps of his porch that night, opening the gift in the dim moonlight.

It was her record of  _La Vie en Rose._ And he smiled because he knew, in that moment, that she had been curious about him too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure I really got the everything right because I focused more on revising the details rather than the grammar (ha-ha), so just tell me what you think!


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